


The Red Lion

by GotTea



Category: Waking the Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-26 19:34:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3862114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GotTea/pseuds/GotTea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Driving through London on their way back to the office Boyd spots a building that stirs old memories, but it's Grace who comes to realise something important.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Red Lion

**The Red Lion**

* * *

For late afternoon on a day that is caught somewhere firmly between the final, biting dregs of winter and the first, expectant hints of early spring it’s moderately – if surprisingly – sunny outside, reflects Grace as the car in which she is a passenger traverses the undeniably grim streets of a run-down South London neighbourhood. The weak rays add a touch of colour and a hint of hope to the scenery rolling past the window she is quietly gazing out of; a promise of something new, of fresh growth and the warmth of life erupting from the ground as the rain and snow begin to fade away.

Perhaps it is a metaphor, she thinks, shivering slightly and pulling her cardigan closer as her mind wanders back over the harsh memories of the last few months; the treatment that is now – thankfully – over, and the infinitely brighter path of recovery that stretches out ahead of her. Beside her, Boyd sees the shiver despite her attempts to hide it, and reaches out to adjust the Audi’s internal heating, raising the temperature another couple of notches as he casts a subtle, investigative glance at her out of the corner of his eye – a glance she is still well aware of despite his efforts to remain unobtrusive. He says nothing though, and despite his obvious concern, the quiet irritation that has been seated firmly between them all day still lingers, leaving both with no inclination for unnecessary communication.

It’s a silly thing, the reason for their squabbling, and she knows it, but the heavy emotional toll of illness and all the changes that have descended upon her calm, ordered life in the last months have left her unusually shaky and unsure, have brutally hammered at the fault lines in her generally peaceful, calm composure, creating deep fissures of uncertainty and inviting back all those old and typically discarded doubts and insecurities that slowly and relentlessly creep in, spreading rampantly like an unwanted weed and taking an unsteadying blow at her confidence. It’s a harsh reality, and one that she struggles with some days far more so than others. Today is one of those days.

Searching for clarity, she purposefully redirects her thoughts, casting them in the direction of their early morning conversation and deliberately recalling the absolute honesty she saw in his eyes as he spoke those words she finds it so very hard to believe. Rationally, and deep in her heart, she knows he wasn’t lying to her, that any sort of personal admission from him is always the truth – even asspontaneousas it was today. But rationality is difficult to cling to when the unforgiving mistress of self-doubt rears her demanding head, catching her off guard and unaware. Coupled with his stubbornness, his iron-willed determination and inability to compromise, and they have the perfect recipe for disagreement, for an argument that could stretch on for days yet to come.

He loves her, she knows that; fiercely and whole-heartedly, with everything he has. Just as she knows that she loves him back, has done, just as unreservedly, for a very long time now. She has never questioned it, knows without a shadow of a doubt that what they have, what they share, runs deeper and binds them tighter than either of them could ever express. But some things, some ideas, she just cannot accept, cannot bring herself to believe.

The sound of her name falling softly from his lips pulls her out of her thoughts, makes her turn her head to look at him. The sun, so low in the sky now, is spilling in through the window, highlighting his features and, lingering irritation aside, she still wants to reach out and run gentle hands through those thick, spiky locks; still wants to trace the curve of his ear with a tender, affectionate finger.

“I’m meeting Pierce at half five,” he tells her, his lower lip curling in a hint of a sneer and telling her exactly what he thinks of the GLA Officer they have recently come into contact with, an opinion she entirely supports, and shares. “After that though, I’ve had enough of this day.” He’s referring to the string of unsuccessful interviews with witnesses to their twenty-five year old murder that they have trekked across the length and breadth of the city today to conduct. Six interviews, and not a single viable result; hardly time and money well spent.

“Knocking off early?” she teases lightly. “Who are you and what have you done with Peter Boyd?” It’s a peace offering, from both of them. They take it without question or pause, the long weeks and months having taught them both something about the true value they place on each other, on their relationship.

He smiles softly, his eyes momentarily leaving the road to connect with hers. “Fancy going out for dinner somewhere, or are you too tired?” he asks, checking the mirrors and signalling his intention to turn left. Her eyes shift, looking out of the windscreen and tracking the movements of a cyclist on a neon orange racing bike as he or she zooms off down a side street, disappearing from view. Rough gardens and roadside borders are broken up by clumps of snowdrops pushing up into the world, valiantly fighting to show off their pretty white blossoms and herald the promised spring. It’s a dreamy flash of reassurance, of hope that this year will not be as tough as the last and Grace clings to it with both hands, lets the idea flood her mind with the tangle of thoughts and desires for the future that she’s kept hidden for far too long.

Dinner sounds like a nice idea and she’s about to tell him so when Boyd abruptly slams his foot on the brakes, jolting her out of her reverie as he knocks a good thirty miles an hour off the car’s speed, and then tugs sharply on the wheel, pulling rapidly off the main road and into the tiny handful of spaces that constitute the car park of The Red Lion public house.

“What on earth are you doing?” demands Grace, heart pounding as she relinquishes her death grip on the door handle and twists to look at him once more, peeved by the sudden, unexpected and wholly uncomfortable manoeuvring. His face is a picture – an expression caught somewhere between real distress and shock that makes her wonder what he is thinking as he stares up at the recently added signs proclaiming the forthcoming closure of the old fashioned local that has been in operation for more years than the two of them can claim combined.

A car horn sounds, emitted from an old and slightly dented silver Astra that they are now preventing from reaching the exit, but, with only the barest hint of an impatient scowl breaking though his perturbed expression and beginning knit his brows together, Boyd simply shifts into reverse and backs into the nearest parking space as the other driver continues to glare inhospitably at them whilst conducting a protracted series of explicit gesticulations. As the other man rolls his car to a halt across the nose of the now stationary Audi, effectively blocking them in, Boyd simply reaches for one of two small, unobtrusive switches on the dash and flicks it on. Grace sees the authoritative gleam of piercing, bright blue light reflected in the bodywork of the other car for just a moment, before the door that was just starting to open slams quickly shut again, the driver apparently deciding capitulation is the best route and hurriedly speeding away, disappearing into the encroaching gloom of the now rapidly approaching evening. She says nothing, simply raises an eyebrow at his level of restraint and wonders, not for the first time lately, if his shrug and quiet mutter of “I’m tired,” is really the truth and he isn’t simply trying very hard to protect her from as many unnecessary situations as possible. Not something she’s going to dwell on for long though, given the likely answer she’d get if she were to ask him about it. Instead she switches her gaze to the building that has so caught his attention.

“I came here once,” Grace says slowly, as her eyes travel over the half-forgotten brickwork and the masses of climbing ivy. Recollection washes over her, supplying her with snippets of detail from an evening that she ruefully realises is a lot closer to twenty years ago now than the ten she had initially thought. “A long time ago. I was with a friend, a colleague. We’d been out to a training seminar somewhere, I think, and it was getting late – we were hungry.”

“I know,” replies Boyd, his voice equally soft. The shock is gone from his face now, has been replaced by sadness and a hint of something else – regret, perhaps. Grace can see memories flickering in his eyes and she wonders again what it is he’s thinking even as she digests his words, a frown of confusion forming as she stares at him, at the way the rapidly dying daylight outlines the strong profile of his features. These days her fingers are intimately acquainted with those features and she feels a sudden itch to reach out and touch him, to smooth away his dismay and quietly sooth the sadness she can read there.

“You knew I was hungry?” She’s perplexed, and well aware of how ridiculous her question sounds.

Boyd shakes his head, still staring out at the bleak sign and its bold date of conclusion, a quiet “no,” all he offers.

“What then?” she pushes, exasperation creeping in.

He finally relents. “I knew you’d been here.”

Casting her mind back, Grace can think of not a single instance when The Red Lion has cropped up in conversation, and though she’ll easily admit that some of her more recent memories are blighted by the muddled haze of treatment, she’s still relatively certain she hasn’t even thought about the place in many years now. “How?” she wonders aloud, her curiosity climbing.

“I saw you,” he finally admits. “I was here that night, too, sitting in the far corner.”

For a moment she’s simply too stunned by the improbability of their almost encounter to form words. Swallowing, she manages to clear her throat and ask a wholly unoriginal but entirely genuine, “Really?”

He turns to look at her, and his smile is warm and fond, full of reminiscence now. “I can remember it as though it was yesterday. You were wearing jeans and a dark green shirt covered in paint. Your hair was longer and you had it tied back with a scarf the same colour as your eyes.” Twisting sideways, he sinks back into his seat, head resting against the dark leather as he reaches across to touch her cheek, fingertips tracing an invisible smudge across to her nose. “There was paint smeared right here,” he tells her, “and your left shoelace was untied. I was going to use it as an excuse to come and talk to you, but your friend spotted it first.”

Memory stirs again, forming a clearer picture. “It wasn’t a seminar,” she recalls, snapshots of the day appearing in her mind. “It was a charity thing – we were helping repair a children’s home that had been damaged in a freak storm. I painted murals on the walls of the bedrooms.”

“And quite a bit of yourself too,” he grins, taking her hand and gently pushing up her sleeve, exposing the soft skin beneath it. His fingers move as he speaks, his touch light and feathery. “There was paint here… and here… and here too. Are you sure you managed to get any on those walls?”

She laughs at his teasing, the half smirk on his face making her want to reach out and kiss him, to lose herself in the tangle of taste and touch and scent that has never yet failed to ensnare both her mind and her senses. She turns her hand over as his fingers slowly trail down her arm, tugging the cloth back into place, drawing in a shaky breath at the heightening intensity the pressure of the very tip of his nail elicits as it tracks across her palm, following a meandering line to her index finger and down, his knuckle bending to curl around hers, linking them both together. 

Her voice suddenly inexplicably thick with emotion brought on by the intense sensuality of the moment, and her eyes riveted by the sight of their joined hands, she asks quietly, “Why didn’t you talk to me anyway?”

He doesn’t answer right away, and when she risks a glance she can see a wash of regret in him. “I don’t know… I wanted to, but… I was newly separated, my life was a mess and I’d had a drink too many, I suppose.” At that she understands – Boyd is never a happy drunk, too much alcohol invariably makes him quiet and reflective, melancholy even. He shrugs, his thumb stroking over the back of her hand. “By the time I had my thoughts in order you were gone and the barman couldn’t tell me your name, said he’d never seen you before.”  

“What a shame,” she sighs, thinking of the wasted opportunity.

“I came back anyway, hoping you’d be here.”

“Really?” She’s astonished by his admission; astonished and deeply touched.

He’s solemn, absolutely serious. “Really!”

“Why?”

“Because you made me smile. You walked in, scruffy and paint splattered, and not a care in the world about it. I watched you smile and laugh, and I felt for a moment like I could still find hope if I tried.”

“Only for a moment?”

His grin is back again, his tone light. “Well, you did up and disappear on me, vanishing into the night.”

“I wish I’d known,” she tells him, and it’s her turn to be soft and serious now as she watches the way he is regarding her, his expression enigmatic; a mix of a thousand different things. The weight of his gaze is heavy and penetrating, as though he is looking deep into the heart of her, picking through the layers one by one until he finds the insecurity, the need for reassurance. Again it takes a long time, but when he does eventually speak his tone is steady, save for the tiny hint that tells her just how much he means every single word.

“All those stupid sayings, Grace… beauty is in the eye of the beholder… love is blind… they’re quaint, and antiquated, but that doesn’t mean they’re not still true.”

His honesty hits her with the force of a sledgehammer; incredibly, stunningly powerful, yet desperately overwhelming. They’ve come full circle, she realises, back to their morning disagreement and all the thorns and prickles that came with it. Maybe, she allows herself to wonder, she should just give in and believe him. Maybe he really does see her that way – she cannot, after all, read his mind. And if the months of living together have taught her anything, it’s that his professional front is just that – a front. A carefully constructed façade designed to get the job done. Behind the mask of police efficiency and shouty, brash determination he’s undeniably every bit as strong willed and resolute, and he approaches their relationship with the same fierce, endlessly stubborn dedication he throws at all the things he truly cares about, but he is also capable of infinitely caring tenderness and the kind of intuitive understanding that only comes with knowing someone very, very well.

He knows her, and he loves her – for everything that she is, exactly as she is. He loves the same way he works – with intense commitment, an all or nothing approach, and it is more glorious than she ever imagined it could be. She’s never once doubted that about him, or even that he is as deeply, profoundly lost in her as she is in him. She’s never had any cause or reason to distrust him in any way, in anything. So why, she wonders, does she disbelieve him in this?

Maybe, just maybe, she really is wrong, but that would mean she’s also been incredibly unfair to him. And maybe isn’t maybe, is it? It’s definitely. Guilt, a hot, accusing torrent of it descends upon her from nowhere, flooding through her and filling her with remorse and shame at her outburst, her refusal to believe him. The defiance that has led to an entire day of squabbling, that so quickly ended what was undeniably one of the most tender, heartfelt mornings she has ever experienced. Tears prickle at her eyes, building quickly and blurring the ivy into a flat haze of green.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, suddenly utterly horrified, distraught. She ducks her head, tries to hide her face from him, but instead feels strong yet gentle fingers cup her cheek, urge her to turn and face him.

“Grace? Grace, look at me… it’s okay.” His voice is barely more than a whisper, but in the confines of the car it doesn’t need to be any louder. She does as he asks, her eyes slowly flickering up to meet his, her shame burning though her like a furiously wild, raging fire. “It’s okay,” he repeats, the pad of his thumb catching her tears and brushing them delicately from her skin.

 _It’s okay… I understand_. His voice echoes in her mind, his meaning crystal clear and in that moment more powerful than anything else she could imagine, which only makes her situation worse. She’s angry with herself, and deeply ashamed; as though she has committed the most colossal act of betrayal, has spurned his faith and love and total confidence in her. The tears become a deluge, overwhelming her and adding a hint of embarrassment to the riot of emotions already tumbling around inside her but they seem to serve a constructive purpose as she finally allows herself to make a choice, a decision that has been haunting her for a long, long time now.

Acceptance is a powerful thing, she discovers, and as she makes that conscious choice to just let go of the insecurity, to let herself really, truly believe him, she feels something loosen in her chest, feels a weight melt away from her shoulders. It has very little to do with the question of how he sees her, she realises, but more a collapse of the final barriers she has refused to surrender to. A desperate need to hang on to a least some level of control of all the things that shouldn’t matter, but have cruelly nagged at her battered defences, exploiting all the weaknesses they find there. It’s about trust; total, absolute trust in him, and whether she has it or not. It’s a startling thought, given she has spent her entire adult life among the inner workings of the human mind; startling, and just a touch unsettling that it’s taken her so long to finally see it, but liberating too.

She’s tugged from her musings by the soft click of her seatbelt being released as he reaches across and lifts her into his lap – an improbable action given the proximity of the steering wheel and the lack of space, but one he seems to manage nonetheless – and then his arms are wrapped firmly around her, cradling her snugly against his body. It should be an uncomfortable experience but it’s not, it’s merely exactly what she needs right now. Yet again he has read her like an open book and simply known what it is she needs in that moment – a role reversal that speaks volumes. She feels his cheek rest against her hair, the soothing beat of his heart beneath her ear and the comforting warmth of him all around her. It’s simple, it’s perfect and it offers her the answer that she has always known, but suspects she was just afraid to admit. She trusts him; totally, absolutely, completely. And as his arms tighten just a fraction around her, she just knows that somehow he knows exactly how significant this moment is for her, and for them.

The sun sets, the light fades and night draws in around them before they feel the need to move again, before Grace quietly asks, “Did you really come back?”

“I did,” he answers, lazily honest. “Several times, in fact.”

She sighs again at what feels very much like a missed opportunity. “I never did. That night was my first and last visit.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he tells her, his fingers wandering through her hair, his lips brushing across the top of her forehead. “We met not long after anyway.”

“Really?”

“Mm. Three months later – to the day, in fact. You stalked into my office like a thundercloud and demanded to know if I was completely stupid, or just epically misguided.”

“I did, didn’t I,” she laughs, remembering. “I’m sorry – I distinctly remember having a very bad morning that day.”

He laughs, the vibrations from deep within his chest creating a sensation against her ear that is far from unpleasant. “Ah, but as I recall your afternoon was considerably better,” he reminds her, remembering fondly.

“And many that followed it,” she agrees, taking his hand again, playing absently with his fingers. Tilting her head, she looks up at him, his face heavily shadowed in the darkness. “I love you,” she murmurs, her free hand reaching up to stroke his cheek, along his jaw, “and I’m sorry.”

A disparaging sound rumbles in the back of his throat – not dismissing her apology, but the reasons for it. Letting her know it’s not necessary, that as far as he is concerned, the issue is resolved, over with. Instead he tilts his head down, lips seeking and unerringly finding hers. His kiss is soft and light, with no hint of tension or antagonism, just a gentle reassurance and warm, enduring affection.

“We should go,” Grace reluctantly remarks as they draw apart. “You don’t want to be late for your meeting.” He scowls, but says nothing on the matter. Instead looks down at her and nods, raising an eyebrow in question. “Help me?” she asks, trying to slither from his lap back into her seat.

“With pleasure – my legs are killing me!”

She’s finally back on her own side of the vehicle. “Why?”

“Why do you bloody think? You’re h-”

The look she shoots him as she reaches blindly for her seatbelt stops him dead. The raising of just one eyebrow as his silence stretches on makes him fumble for an answer. Nothing seems appropriate though. Except, maybe…

His tone drops, the levity vanishes. “Gorgeous,” he tells her, absolutely sincere. “Very, very beautiful.”

This time she doesn’t argue, offers instead a simple, “Thank you.”

She believes him, and she knows he can see it in her eyes, despite the gloom. He still has to have the last word though, which is exactly why, as he shifts the car into gear, she sees that trademark smirk of his appear, sees that incredibly self-satisfied expression that always follows when he knows he’s won an argument. Maybe, on this occasion, she can let him get away with it. But then again, maybe not.

“So,” she remarks slowly, as he pulls out onto the main road, “about this dinner then…”


End file.
